Light in the Darkness
by Fantasy's Magic
Summary: When checking the boundary lines in the woods, Stiles is attacked.
1. Chapter 1

**Sometimes death shows up when we least expect it.**

* * *

It had meant to be something benign – something so inconsequential that it should never have warranted his going out there in the first place.

Guess that was how it always happened.

He'd gone out to check on the edge of their territory, to make sure some of the magic lines they'd set up were still working and in place. He hadn't been told to do it; he'd just been home alone, waiting for his dad to get back from his shift, so he thought he'd use the few free hours he had to make sure everything was hunky-dory. He hadn't told anyone where he was going. He was just going there and back again, it was just going to be a quick trip. Thirty minutes, tops. He hadn't expected to find some of the lines actually broken, or shredded tree trunks and bark laying scattered across the ground.

He hadn't expected to get attacked by a werewolf and thrown through the trees like he was a rag doll.

He'd tried to fight, of course, it was instinct. But he hadn't stood a chance. The werewolf had simply assailed him with punches, picked him up and threw him again.

His head had hit the tree, sending shockwaves through his body and leaving him seeing stars. Then the werewolf, looking more beast than human, dug his claws into his leg and began to pull.

Stiles screamed.

He didn't know what was happening, where he was going or what the wolf was doing. All he knew was that his leg felt as though it were on fire, as though someone had shoved their fingers into his flesh, grabbed all of his muscles and tendons and _pulled_.

The pain was blinding and when the movement stopped, Stiles felt as though all the air had been punched from his lungs.

The wolf was suddenly leaning over him, the saliva from his bared teeth dripping down onto Stiles' face, running down his cheek. He barely noticed, though. All he could see were the manic, golden eyes looking back into his own, listening to the low growl emanating from the wolf's throat as it sniffed around his face. Fear shot through Stiles' body like an electric shock, as he realised that the wolf wasn't sniffing out of curiosity or benign interest – it was tasting its food.

Blind panic took over and Stiles' struggles increased as he did everything he could to get away, to push the werewolf back, to _run, dear God he had to run._ He began hitting the wolf with his free hand, punching it, trying to scratch at its eyes, its nose, its temples, anything that would make it stop, _please, please it had to stop_.

Then, without warning, the wolf grabbed his flailing arm and squeezed.

White light flooded Stiles' vision. Then everything went black.

When Stiles came to, he slowly became aware that the wolf was licking his stomach. It took him a moment to figure out what was happening, but when he looked down he could see the frayed and torn edges of his ripped shirt, and he could faintly make out the wet glimmer of something in the moonlight.

Something red.

Stiles dropped his head back onto the ground, staring up into the night sky, his chest heaving in and out as muddled thoughts ran through his mind.

So this was how he would die. Huh. And for some reason he'd always thought he'd go out in a blaze of glory, standing beside Scott, his father, his friends; saving the innocent, keeping the darkness at bay. A brother among heroes.

Fate, it seemed, would not be so kind to him.

Stiles stared into the night sky, the forest around him completely silent save for the sound of sniffs and slurps as the werewolf lapped at his blood. He didn't know how much time had passed, but eventually his thoughts began to turn to his father and his friends.

He hadn't told them where he was. He hadn't even told them he was going out. His dad would come home from his shift, would see that he wasn't there, and he'd assume that he was just out with Scott and the rest of the pack. Usually he'd be right in assuming that.

But not tonight.

Lydia and Malia… they were both studying. They had a test coming up in Algebra, and Lydia was helping Malia figure out the last couple chapters because Malia had always struggled with math, even when she was a child, and if she wanted to graduate this year she had to figure it out, and Mr. Jacobs had already failed her twice, and… and….

A wave of exhaustion fell over him and he blinked, trying to keep his eyes from falling shut.

Stiles' thoughts began to drift.

He'd always known that the life he led held a high probability of a young death. He hadn't really expected to make it far, had been surprised that he'd made it as far as he already had, considering everything he had gone through. So many times he should have died, so many times he should have been killed, but he hadn't. It was really starting to feel as though someone out there was keeping an eye out for him, was making sure the human had at least some sort of protection when going out into the supernatural.

Or at least, it had.

He'd thought he had come to peace with death, with the reality that he'd most likely face it sooner than later. But life had always been so busy, so filled with school, friends, the supernatural – he hadn't ever really slowed down enough to think about what came after.

Or maybe more accurately, he hadn't wanted to.

Was there really a life after death? Would he see his mother again? His grandparents? Or would everything go dark, and consciousness fade until he fell into oblivions? Growing up he had always thought… but then they'd seen the supernatural, saw that it was real, and….

Stiles swallowed, his mouth and throat dry. His eyes fell to a particular star that was shining above him in the black ink of the night sky, and didn't look away.

He didn't want to die. He wanted to fight, to yell, to scream, to find a way – any way – to get away from where he was and back to Beacon Hills, back to his friends, back to his house, back to his room where he could lock the doors and window and wrap himself in blankets and _be_ _safe, be safe, be safe._

The wolf's claw snagged something in Stiles' stomach and he heard someone cry out, only realising vaguely a few moments later that it had been him. The wolf didn't appear to be bothered by it, however, and continued on in its feeding.

His thoughts fell to Scott.

They had fought, before he'd left. It hadn't been anything like when they'd fought over Donovan and Theo, nothing would probably ever get that bad again, but they had still argued, had still left each other angry terms.

Scott had wanted to start training Liam and his friends, had wanted to bring more people into the knowledge that werewolves and the supernatural existed. Stiles had been adamant that they shouldn't do that, had argued that the more people who knew, the more there would be in danger – the more they would have to protect.

Scott had gone all alpha on him, sticking out his chest and trying to tell him to suck it up and accept it, because this is what he thought was best and so that is what they were going to do. Stiles had nearly thrown a fit then, because if it was one thing he couldn't handle, it was someone else trying to tell him what to do. He'd left in a huff, angrily slamming the door of the classroom shut, refusing to talk to the werewolf for the rest of the day.

He didn't think he could regret anything more. Right now everything in him wished that his best friend was here to make everything better. To save him, to heal him, to take away his pain – to make this whole nightmare go away.

Growing up, it had always been Stiles that was the strong one, the one who got them both into trouble and out of it. Scott's asthma had always hindered them from doing anything too crazy, though it wasn't for lack of trying. But Stiles had always been there with his extra inhaler to help him whenever an attack came, keeping Scott calm and focused on his breathing, bringing him back with gentle touches and soothing words until he was better. Stiles had always felt a sense of pride in being able to help his friend, in being able to act so grown up, in being able to do something that someone else actually needed – in being needed.

Stiles couldn't remember the last time Scott had had an attack. He couldn't remember where his spare inhaler was that he'd always kept in his bag or his room whenever Scott was around. He couldn't remember. For so long he'd kept constant track of that thing, but now he didn't even know where it was….

But it didn't really matter, in the end. Scott hadn't needed it for a long time now. He hadn't needed him. He'd grown up, had become an adult, a leader – keeping everything and everyone around him safe and protected at all times.

Sometimes… sometimes Stiles wondered if he was still in that forest, still in that glade where Scott had first been bit, where both their lives had been so irrevocably changed forever. He wondered if while Scott had made it out, if maybe he… if maybe he hadn't. Maybe he was still there, still searching for that body, still fumbling around in the dark like a child, never getting older, never getting wiser, never growing up….

The star was beginning to fade.

It didn't matter now, though. None of it did. His fears, his worries, his insecurities – it would all soon be gone. He wouldn't have to think about any of it anymore. All his mistakes, all his screw-ups, all his failures… soon he wouldn't have to deal with them anymore.

He wouldn't have to deal with anything any more.

A howl pierced through the air, startling Stiles' eyes back open – when had he closed them? – and they started jumping around, trying to see where the call had come from. It wasn't Scott's howl, he knew that for certain. He knew Scott's call as though it were his own voice. No, this howl had been from someone else.

The wolf at his stomach suddenly stopped what it was doing and looked up, turning round and gazing into the trees. A whimper escaped its throat as it turned back to look at Stiles, clearly not wanting to leave him. A second howl sounded through the trees a few moments later, and the wolf finally turned and lumbered away with a huff, disappearing through the trees.

Everything was silent, save for the hoot of an owl and the rustling of leaves in the dark.

Stiles was alone.

He supposed it was better this way, really. At least he could just fall asleep, and that'd be it. He wouldn't have to wonder when it would happen, or how painful it would be. He already knew all that. He wouldn't have to deal with crying fathers or tearful friends, or people begging him to stay with them. He was alone. But soon… hopefully he'd open his eyes and see his mother; hopefully he'd be able to spend the rest of whatever eternity there was out there with her. Hopefully.

Hopefully.

A cold wind swept over Stiles' face and he blinked back awake.

He wondered if maybe he shouldn't be more upset. If maybe he should be fighting more to make it back, to get to the hospital, to survive. He wondered if maybe he was taking this all too easily, if maybe he shouldn't put up more of a fight.

But as Stiles moved and a fresh wave of pain flooded through him, leaving him crying out and his body completely exhausted, he knew that it was futile. Even if he did want to get out of here, even if he did want to fight, it wouldn't matter because he couldn't. The gouges in his legs and stomach wouldn't let him, the blood-loss wouldn't let him, the trail that was now over a twenty-minute walk from the road and his jeep wouldn't let him. It was over, and no amount of ranting or railing would change that.

Part of Stiles was secretly glad that it was him that had ended with this fate, rather than Lydia or Malia or Scott. As a human, he had always been a greater hindrance and burden than the rest of the pack. A sharp mind and a baseball bat could only get you so far when fighting the supernatural; strength and supernatural abilities would always win out.

Now though, he wouldn't have to endanger anyone anymore; they could all just focus on keeping themselves safe and alive. Besides, Batman never really needed Robin anyway.

With his ragged breaths and loud heartbeat sounding in his ears, Stiles let his eyes fall shut.

* * *

Scott glared impatiently at his phone, waiting for the three dots at the end of the message to appear, showing that Stiles had got his message and was responding. He'd texted him four times over the past forty minutes, and he hadn't responded to any of them once. Stiles was most likely ignoring them Scott knew, because Stiles was not above being petulant and closed off when he was angry – not even close.

Normally he'd give both of them some room to breathe, waiting an evening or night before trying to talk about what happened – or talk at all, really. But he'd just received a frantic call from Lydia, saying that she'd screamed and that she knew it was someone close to them, that it was someone they knew. It was probably someone from school, they'd figured, like Danny or maybe Coach.

Adrenaline had started pumping through Scott's veins as a rush of panic began to set in, knowing that they needed to find who this person was _now_ , and save them before it was too late. They needed Stiles to help them, they needed his brain and his smarts. He'd know who the most potential victims would be far sooner than either he, Lydia, or Malia could ever figure out. He and Stiles had fought, yes, but Scott knew that Stiles would quickly put their fight on the back burner if someone was in trouble.

Huffing angrily in frustration, Scott finally hit the phone icon and tapped Stiles' name, bringing the phone to his ear as the call began to ring.

 _Come on Stiles,_ he thought, tapping his finger against the back of the phone. _Pick up. Just get over our fight for now and_ pick up.

* * *

Music was playing.

Stiles shifted, wondering where the noise was coming from. It was a familiar song, one he'd heard a thousand times before, but who was playing it? Right now Stiles didn't want to hear it. He wanted silence, he wanted quiet, he wanted to go back to sleep.

But the music kept playing.

Consciousness sparked through Stiles' mind and he suddenly became aware of the cold. The more he noticed it, the more he realised that his whole body was freezing. He tried to move, hoping he could find a blanket nearby, but the movement only sent a wave of pain wrenching through his entire body. He cried out, his voice tearing through his throat like sandpaper, and suddenly he was panting, feeling as though he'd just run a twenty-mile race.

The music continued to play.

Why was he cold? Why was he in so much pain? Had he fallen down somewhere, had he been in a car accident, had he –

Strength briefly returned and his eyes fluttered open.

At first he wasn't sure if they _had_ opened, as all he saw was darkness. Ever so slowly, though, they began to adjust, and he realised that he was looking up into the night sky through the branches and leaves of trees.

Where the heck was he? Why was he out here, in the middle of the night, laying on the ground and freezing cold, and –

He was hurt. That much he knew. He was hurt, and the pain wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop and he was so tired, and… and….

The music stopped for a few moments and Stiles felt himself relax, as silence overtook the forest once more. He closed his eyes, hoping to fall back asleep, when the music from before suddenly started playing once more.

He wrenched his eyes back open and this time he turned his head towards the noise, trying to see where it was coming from.

A light shone in the distance a few feet away, shaking every few seconds and dancing across the ground. Stiles frowned, wondering for a moment what on earth it was, when recognition suddenly flashed across his mind.

His cell phone.

It was his cell phone. It was still here, almost right beside him, and it looked like someone was calling him.

Someone _was_ calling him.

It took Stiles a moment, his lungs sucking in quick, short breaths as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do.

 _Oh, that's right,_ a voice suddenly whispered in the back of his mind. _I'm dying._

He stared at the phone as it continued to ring, thinking to himself that the light looked vaguely ethereal, its white rays shining brightly in the darkness.

The music never stopped playing.

Stiles reached out a shaking arm, his hand hitting the ground and searching for a few moments before he finally managed to wrap his fingers around the phone and pick it up, swiping a bloody thumb across the screen as he brought it to his ear.

 _"_ _Stiles! Stiles, dude, look – I know you're still pissed at me but you gotta listen. Lydia screamed, she had one of her visions, and…."_

Scott. That was Scott's voice sounding in his ear. Scott, his best friend, his brother, the only person aside from his dad who had been there with him for nearly every step of his life.

 _"…_ _we need to make a list of who it could be, we can each start going to their house and…"_

They'd fought. He and Scott had fought, and that was the last thing they would ever do together. It was bittersweet, really. They had never really fought much throughout their lives, but now it would be the last thing they would do together.

 _"_ _Stiles… Stiles, are you even there?"_ A sigh. _"Look, we can argue about the supernatural and who all knows about it later. Right now we have to get together, and –."_

Stiles could feel his heart begin to slow and he sucked in a small, rattled breath. Scott's voice cut off, the line going silent for a moment before he spoke again. _"Stiles, are you… are you okay? Stiles, where are you?"_

Stiles heaved in another breath, trying to gather his words together before they disappeared from his lips. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft and quiet amongst the darkness of the night. "Hey, Scott…."

 _"_ _Stiles, where are you? Are you at home? Let me come pick you up, we can meet up with Lydia and Malia. We can… we can figure things out on the way there."_

'Figure things out' was Scilese for apologise and make up, which was something that Stiles would right now like nothing more than to do.

"Yeah, Scott," he said quietly. "Yeah we can do that."

 _"_ _Okay,"_ Scott said, and Stiles knew that he was probably walking around now, surprised but pleased that Stiles had given in so easily. _"Okay, well – tell me where you are, I'll come pick you up!"_

Stiles' eyes closed as he listened to his friend's voice, glad to hear him happy once again. It was a far better thing to remember than his anger.

He must've been silent for too long, because when Scott spoke again, his voice was suddenly tinged with concern. _"Stiles?"_ he said. _"Stiles, is – is everything okay?"_

Stiles' eyes cracked back open and he licked his lips, tasting copper on his tongue. "Y-yeah Scott. I'm fine. Tell… tell me what you know 'bout Lydia's vision."

He must've said something wrong, because Scott's voice had now gone from slightly worried to full-blown fear.

 _"_ _Stiles, what happened? What's wrong?"_

"Scott…."

 _"_ _Stiles are you okay, is everything all right?"_

Stiles coughed, the movements jerking his body and sending another lick of fire burning through his abdomen. All he could taste was copper.

"Scott, I'm… I'm fine."

 _"_ _The hell you are, Stiles. Tell me where you are! Tell me where you are right now!"_

Stiles shook his head, not wanting to tell Scott where he was. It was too late for him now, it had been too late for a while.

It had been too late a long time ago.

 _"_ _Stiles."_

Scott's voice was shaking and Stiles felt a stab of concern and guilt in his chest, wondering why his friend sounded so upset.

 _"_ _Stiles, listen, you – you have to tell me where you are. Just tell me where you are and I'll come find you."_

Oh. He was upset because of him. But why? Did he know that he was hurt? Or was he still upset from their fight before? He shouldn't be upset over that. Life was too short to be upset over meaningless fights.

Stiles' eyes drifted past the trees and towards the stars. There were so many of them, and they were so bright against the black of the sky. They almost looked like they'd been sewn there, etched into a patch of darkness and hung far above him. It was so pretty….

 _"…_ _iles. STILES!"_

Stiles snapped back, his eyes re-focusing as Scott's voice shouted in his ear.

 _"_ _Stiles, say something! Please, just say something –."_

"Scott…." Stiles sucked in another shaky breath. He could hear his own lungs breathing, like sucking air through a straw. "Scott, I want… I want you t'know… t'know that… 'm sorry, and… and please… please take care of my dad. Please, Scott, take care of him. He w-won't… w-won't like losing me, he'll… he'll get 'pset and… and he'll dr… drink, and…."

 _"_ _Stiles, I'm asking you,"_ Scott said, his voice holding all the authority of the alpha that Stiles knew he was. _"Tell me where you are. Where did you go? Are you on the south side of town, or – or the north, or –."_

"Scott…." Stiles' voice was no more than a whisper; it was getting hard to keep his eyes open. "Scott, it's okay. It's okay, Scott."

 _"_ _Stiles."_

Scott's voice was breaking, and Stiles could tell that his friend was starting to panic.

"Scott, i-it doesn't… it doesn't matter. It's too late."

 _"_ _No, it's not too late,"_ Scott refuted. He was starting to get angry.

"Yes," Stiles whispered. "Yes it is."

The phone suddenly slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground with a thud. Stiles could hear Scott's voice sounding in the distance and he tilted his head, trying to press his ear against the speaker as best he could.

 _"_ _STILES!"_

"Scott…" Stiles licked his lips again. A cough bubbled from his chest and blood splattered across his phone.

There was a moment of silence, neither one saying a word, until Scott finally spoke. _"Stiles…."_

His voice sounded calm, sounded light. Stiles closed his eyes, letting out a small sigh of relief, glad that he was letting it go.

 _"_ _Stiles, tell me what you did tonight. After our… our fight, where did you go?"_

Stiles turned his head slightly, looking away. He didn't want to talk about that. He didn't want to tell Scott where he was so that he could come and watch him die. He didn't even know where he was, anyway.

He could hear a short, quiet sigh on the other line, a breath, and then: _"Did you go home? Did you – did you go to the school, or…?"_ Another silence, another shaky sigh. _"Stiles, please. Please, if – if you're going to… to die, then… then I'd just like to know what you did tonight, what you did after our fight. What the last things you did were. Please, I – I'd just like to know."_

The plea in Scott's voice was almost painful, and Stiles could practically see his face in front of him, his brows knit together in worry, his jaw clenched tightly in concern. He looked both desperate and like a puppy, and that was a combination that Stiles had never been able to ignore.

"I… I went home…" he finally said.

 _"_ _Okay. Okay, you went home. Then what? Did you go anywhere after that?"_

"I was… I was mad at you. I didn't… I don't want anyone else t'know 'bout the s'pernatural, Scott, it's too dang'rous. It's too dang'rous."

 _"_ _I know, Stiles, I know – you're right. You were completely right, but – but tell me what you did after that. You went home, you were still mad at me, and then what?"_

"Then…" Stiles coughed. "Then I thought… I thought 'bout the lines, and the m'gic and I… I wanted t'check on 'em…"

 _"_ _The… the lines? The magic lines? You mean the boundaries around the city?"_

"Yeah."

 _"_ _Okay. Okay, that's good. That's good, Stiles, that's really good. Now just – just tell me, which side of the city did you check? North, south, east, west?"_

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, trying to think. Which one had he checked?

 _"_ _Stiles. Stiles come on, man – you gotta tell me. Just tell me which direction you went. Stiles. Stiles, where did you go?"_

A single word whispered in the back of Stiles' mind.

North. North, he'd gone north.

 _"_ _North,"_ Scott said, and Stiles was confused, wondering how he'd known. Maybe werewolves had more powers than he'd thought.

 _"_ _Okay. Okay, Stiles – I'm coming to get you. Just hold on – I'm coming to get you."_

His stomach had started burning again and Stiles instinctively tried to curl in on himself, trying to push back the pain. The movement only made it worse, though, and he squeezed his eyes shut, a cry tearing itself through his lips.

 _"_ _Stiles, Stiles what's wrong? What's happening? STILES!"_

Stiles' eyes snapped open and he rolled onto his back, the pain bringing a sudden flood of awareness with it. His panting increased, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to suck in air amongst the blood that was welling and bubbling in his throat, leaving him in a coughing fit as he tried not to choke.

He had to turn over. He had to turn his head back on his side, had to get the blood out of his mouth….

His ears had begun to ring, drowning out all other noise as he attempted to move his body onto his side. Pain was tearing through his legs and stomach, feeling as though someone had set his insides on fire. He wanted it to stop, _dear God he wanted it to_ _stop_.

More than anything, though, he wanted his father. He wanted his father; he wanted him to show up and take control and hold him and make everything better. He wanted Melissa, he wanted Scott.

He wanted his mother.

Stiles somehow managed to turn himself onto his side and his body went lax in exhaustion, his head falling to the side until it hit the forest floor. He could feel the blood draining from his mouth onto the ground, and he suddenly found himself able to breathe once more.

 _"…_ _iles! Stiles, answer me! Answer me Stiles, please! Please answer me."_

Stiles coughed, sucking in another ragged breath as his vision swam and nausea gathered in his throat. When his eyes finally focused on the phone, he realised it was covered in puke.

"Scott," he managed to get out.

The relief in Scott's voice was nearly palpable. _"Stiles."_

"Scott," Stiles said again, though this time his voice was shaking, his vision suddenly starting to blur. "Scott, I don't… I don't…." Stiles took a shuddering breath, his next words barely above a whisper. "I want to go home."

There was silence, and for a brief moment Stiles thought that he was alone – that Scott had left him, had hung up, had decided he was a lost cause, that he wasn't worth it.

But then he heard Scott breathe, and he listened as Scott spoke. His voice was clearly shaking, and yet somehow it was strong.

 _"_ _You're not going to die, Stiles. I promise. I'm not going to let that happen. I'm going to find you. I'm on my way, right now. I'm nearly there. Just – just hold on, okay? Just hold on a little longer."_

Just a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Stiles didn't know when the silence had fallen, only that it was suddenly very quiet. He realised belatedly that the pain had faded, turning into a distant thrum in the back of his mind. The fear he'd been feeling before had faded too, leaving him with an odd sense of emptiness and peace.

He drifted, his eyes staring unseeingly into the shadows and black of the trees, focusing all his efforts on the simple act of breathing.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but suddenly he became aware of a voice speaking nearby, saying the same words over and over again.

 _"…_ _les…iles…iles 'ease… please… please Stiles… please talk to me… please don't leave me… please…."_

Stiles took a deeper breath, gathering his words. "Scott."

A shuddering breath. _"Stiles. Stiles, thank God."_

Stiles swallowed, tilting his head, feeling the caress of the grass as it moved against his face. He felt his lips tug slightly as he began to think of him and his best friend, his brother, of the life they'd had and all the fun they'd been able to have together. He took a breath. "Sc't… Scott, we had a pretty good run, didn't we?"

A pause, then, _"We're still having a good run, Stiles. It's not over yet."_

"I'm sorry I got mad at you."

 _"_ _Don't apologise Stiles, you –."_

"I'm glad… I'm really glad we were friends. You were the best brother I could have ever asked for."

 _"_ _Stiles, don't – stop talking like that. Stiles I'm nearly there, I'm pretty sure I can already smell your scent, I swear –."_ Scott's voice broke with a sob. _"Stiles, you can't give up. Don't give up on me yet. I need you. I need you, Stiles."_

"You… you never needed me, Sc't. Batman never needed Robin."

He heard Scott scoff, anger filling his friend's voice. _"Stiles that's the stupidest metaphor you ever stuck to us. We're not Batman and Robin, that's so – that's so fucking_ stupid _. I could – I could've never made it without you. If you hadn't helped me that first year, those first few months – Stiles I'd never have made it. I know you think I would have, that I'd have figured it out somehow, but you're wrong. I would have killed someone, I'd have killed my mother or our friends or –."_ Scott paused, then took a breath. _"We're not Batman and Robin, we're… we're Scott and Stiles. We're Stiles and Scott. We're so much better than Batman and Robin. We… we've done so much, we've helped so many people, we…."_

Scott's voice began to fade, and Stiles' eyes began to close, letting himself focus only on the sound of his friend's voice. He really couldn't think of a much better way to go.

With a deep breath, Stiles finally exhaled, letting his gaze fall into the trees.

It was over.

Somewhere in the distance, Stiles swore he could see his mother's smiling eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.** **Sometimes we become lost.**

Scott drove with his foot pressing the pedal against the floor, the car swinging back and forth as it washed against the gravel road. His phone lay discarded on the seat, flying back and forth with each turn Scott made, its screen shining in the darkness, the seconds of the ongoing call ticking by.

Stiles hadn't spoken for five minutes.

When Scott had realised what was going on, when he'd realised that Stiles was in trouble, when he'd realised that Lydia's scream hadn't been for someone else, that it had been for _him_ –

It wasn't too late, though. Scott knew it – he could feel it in his bones. Stiles was still alive, he was still here, he just had to find him as soon as he could, and –

Something blue reflected off his headlights in the distance.

Scott slammed on the breaks, the car to a screeching halt. Stiles' jeep sat alongside the road halfway in the ditch, silent and still in the darkness.

Shoving the car door open, Scott stumbled out of the car and began running through the woods.

His scent was easy to find. It were as though someone had painted a trail across the ground, leading him through the forest, weaving through the trees, following every step that Stiles had taken. Before Scott knew it he was flying to a halt in a small clearing, his eyes locking on an unmoving figure near one of the trees.

 _Stiles_.

Scott immediately started running forward, before stumbling to a halt.

Stiles was lying across the forest floor, tilted slightly on his side, his head turned towards the dirt. His face was covered in blood along with nearly every other part of his body. His shirt was torn in pieces, clinging together by the barest pieces of threads. Shreds of skin were frayed alongside the fabric, both stained in so much blood that Scott couldn't tell which was which. His right leg was also clawed apart, four long marks ripped across his thigh.

Scott faltered forward, immediately sniffing the air around Stiles' body, trying to taste – trying to smell if he – if he was still –

Scott's eyes fell across Stiles' right arm, which was twisted unnaturally above his head, the skin turned completely black and blue. His eyes turned to Stiles' face, which was horrifically pale in the moonlight; his eyes were closed and for all that it appeared, he looked as though he were asleep.

Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to smell every bit of Stiles that he could, searching for that one scent he wanted to find the most, that one little smell that would tell him that blood was still pumping through Stiles' heart, that he was still with them, that he would be okay, that he wasn't dead, that he wasn't actually dead –

The smell hit Scott like a punch to the face, snapping his eyes back open as he reeled back. It was a smell like no other, a smell so distinct and so precise. It hurt his nose, like rotting flesh only worse, because it only smelled this bad when it was fresh.

D –

Scott's mind recoiled from the thought as though burned, and he began shaking his head.

"No," he said, leaning forward. His hands were shaking as they hovered over Stiles' chest, pausing for a brief moment before he pressed his fingers against Stiles' throat, knowing that he would feel a pulse in any second. Any second now. Any second.

Any second.

Any…

Any…

Scott began moving his fingers around, searching for the artery that held the pulse. He must have missed it.

He pressed his fingers deeper this time, but they slid across Stiles' skin. He tried again, but again they slipped, digging into Stiles' hair.

Scott finally forewent finding his pulse and instead leaned down and pressed his ear against Stiles' chest.

Of course he should have been listening for Stiles' heart from the beginning, of _course_. It was the most obvious thing to do, to check and make sure it wasn't weak, that he would be strong enough to move instead of having to call an ambulance. He just didn't think of it before, what with all the panic and chaos and… and….

Scott closed his eyes, listening for Stiles' heartbeat with every bit of strength in his body.

…

…

…

Scott snapped his head back up, the air cold against his wet face.

It wasn't there.

Scott shook his head.

No. No this couldn't – this couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. This was _not_ happening. It was _not_. It wasn't, it wasn't – he refused. He refused to believe it. There was just no possible way this was actually happening. This wasn't happening.

 _This wasn't happening._

Scott brought his hands together and began compressions on Stiles' chest. Deaton had re-taught him CPR just two months ago, he knew exactly what to do. Calm down, breathe. Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

In a few moments Stiles would cough, and he'd have to make sure to tilt him on his side in order to keep the vomit from gathering, maybe even dig it out with his fingers but that was okay, that was totally okay because he'd do anything to make sure his friend was okay.

One. Two. Three.

He couldn't believe that he'd let Stiles leave like that, rash and angry after their fight. He should have stopped him, should have told him to come back, should have made things right between them. If he had, then maybe Stiles never would have gone out to check the lines.

One. Two. Three.

He would've stayed with Scott and they could've checked the lines together. Then when the werewolf attacked – it was a werewolf, Scott could smell it beyond a shadow of a doubt – then he could have protected Stiles; he could have made sure that he was safe, that the wolf could never have gotten to him. That he could never have been attacked in the first place.

He should never have been attacked in the first place.

One. Two. Three.

But Stiles had always been like this. He had always had an impulsive and spontaneous streak that had gotten him – that had gotten both of them – into trouble more times than he could count. Scott had always been the more hesitant of the two, had always said they should wait and think about something before they went off and did it. It was a dichotomy that had always worked so well between them.

It did. It _did_ work well. It would always work well.

One. Two. Three.

And to think – this all started because Stiles wanted to go into the woods. He'd been listening to his dad's radio and wanted to go and see if they could find a dead body, because they were young and stupid and thought that death didn't mean anything, that it was something to be marveled and gawked at, as though it were something so incredibly foreign that would never touch either one of them.

One. Two. Three.

They'd been wrong. They'd been so wrong. But they were young and stupid and thought that life in Beacon Hills was boring, that their lives were boring, so they took any opportunity at adventure – at what they thought was adventure – that they could. It was a young and stupid thing to do.

And look where it got them.

One. Two. Three.

They didn't realise that they'd been living in a landmine all their lives, that they'd been surrounded by werewolves and the supernatural and literally sitting on top of a _gateway_ into another _world_. They didn't realise that all the gateway needed were two young idiots to open it up and unleash hell into their town.

One. Two. Three.

If they had wanted an adventurous life, they sure as hell got one and more. Scott would give anything to turn back the clock, to tell Stiles no, tell him that they had to stay inside, that they both needed to stay inside and never go out again because there were _things_ out there; there were things that would try and turn them, try and possess them, try and kill them.

One. Two. Three.

There were things that would try and kill their family –

One. Two. Three.

– that would kill their friends –

One. Two. Three.

– that would make them understand that a dead body wasn't just a dead body it was a _person_ , it was a human being with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and friends and family and –

 _Crack_.

Scott's hands froze where they lay above Stiles' chest and the rib that he had just broken.

Everything was quiet.

Scott's eyes flickered to Stiles' face, which remained turned to the side, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open. He was still.

Scott's heart began to race as he closed his eyes, listening for something – _anything_ – a heartbeat, or a breath, or a movement, or – or –

Silence.

Scott leaned back, unable to tear away his eyes from Stiles' face.

He couldn't… he couldn't….

 _The hospital._

The hospital, he had to get him to the hospital.

Scott shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone – why hadn't he done this earlier? Why the hell hadn't he don't this earlier – and searched his contacts, his fingers slipping and sliding across the screen until he finally managed to make the call. His eyes returned to Stiles' face as the phone rang, the moonlight shining across it.

 _"_ _Hello?"_

It looked like ash. Stiles was normally pale, very pale, but this – this was something else. He'd never seen Stiles' face as white as this, and there was this hint of grey that –

 _"_ _Scott, are you there?"_

Scott jerked back, taking a breath. "Mom."

 _"_ _Honey, what's the matter? What's wrong?"_

"Mom. Mom, I – I –."

 _"_ _Scott, take a deep breath. Slow down and just tell me what's going on."_

Scott took a shuddering breath, holding it for a few moments, just as he had when he was just a normal kid with asthma.

"Mom, it's Stiles. He's…. he's…."

 _"_ _Scott, what about Stiles? Is he okay? Are you guys in trouble?"_ There was a hint of panic in her voice, cleverly masked by all her training and years as a nurse, but Scott was her son – he knew when she was worried.

She was always worried now, ever since they went out into those woods, back when they were young and stupid and –

 _"_ _SCOTT!"_

Scott jerked, coming back to the present. "Mom, Stiles is hurt. He's really hurt, he's bleeding and I – I don't know what to do –."

 _"_ _Is he conscious?"_

Scott's eyes fell on Stiles' sleeping face.

"No."

 _"_ _Okay. I need you to start CPR. You remember how to do it, right?"_

He was so still. He was never still. Stiles was always moving, always fidgeting, always tapping his fingers against the steering wheel or the desk or –

 _"_ _Scott, honey, I need you to pull yourself together. You can't help Stiles if you don't listen to me, okay?"_

"Mom, I already did it. I tried – I tried CPR already and it didn't… he's not awake, and I – I think I broke his rib and –."

 _"_ _How long did you do it for?"_

"I don't know. I don't know, I – ten minutes?"

There was the briefest pause, and then, _"Where are you?"_

That, Scott did know. "In the woods. North of town, along the bridge road. He was checking the lines, he was just checking the lines, and –."

 _"_ _How far in the woods are you? If I send an ambulance there, can they get to you?"_

"No –."

 _"_ _Then I need you to take Stiles and get him back to the road. Can you do that for me, Scott? I need you to pick him up and carry him back to where you parked your bike."_

"I didn't take the bike, I took the car," Scott said vaguely, never taking his eyes off Stiles' face.

 _"_ _It doesn't –."_ His mom took a breath. _"Okay, the car. I need you to pick him up and take him back to the car. I'm going to have an ambulance waiting there for you, okay? They're already on their way. They'll be there as soon as you get there."_

He was so still. Why was he so still? He should be coughing, or breathing or talking or something –

 _"_ _Scott!"_

Scott started and suddenly his vision came back into focus.

Stiles. Ambulance. Hospital. Right.

"Okay Mom, I'll – I'll be right there. I'm going now, I'll meet them there."

Scott clicked the phone off and shoved it into his pocket. Without waiting another second, he slipped his arms beneath Stiles' body, picked him up, and began running through the trees.

Scott didn't know how much time passed, but soon he found himself sighting a pair of headlights in the distance, and with the distinct smell of humans he knew that he was nearly there. Seconds later he burst through the trees and into the ditch by the road, where an ambulance and three paramedics were waiting for him. One of the men immediately started running towards him, while the other two unpacked a stretcher and set it on the road.

"Scott, what happened?"

Scott's eyes snapped up to the paramedic – Jason, a veteran, a guy he'd known since he was a kid – and he spoke as quickly as he could. "It's – there was an attack. He – we were in the woods, and there was an attack and he – he's hurt real bad, he's really hurt and I – I need you to help him. He's lost a lot of blood. You have to help him. _Please_ , you have to help him."

Jason began speaking words that Scott didn't listen to, and then suddenly Stiles was being pulled from his arms. Instinctively Scott resisted, trying to pull him back, refusing to let him go – but then another paramedic – Mark, another veteran, he'd been at the hospital for six years now – started shouting in his face.

"SCOTT! Scott, you need to let him go! You need to put him on the stretcher, you need to let him go!"

Scott blinked, realising what was happening, and forced himself to place Stiles on the stretcher.

As soon as he put him down the paramedics began wheeling him over to the ambulance, his body shaking along the gravel road. Scott watched as they lifted up the wheels and slid him into the back of the ambulance.

He was safe. He was safe, he was okay – the ambulance was here, he was going to be okay –

"-tt! SCOTT!"

Scott blinked and looked up, and saw that the paramedic was waving him over, yelling at him to get inside. Scott quickly ran forward and jumped inside, just as the back doors closed. The engine started seconds later and they began racing down the road and towards the hospital.

Scott watched as the paramedics began talking to each other as they ran their hands over Stiles' body. They ripped the rest of his shirt open – it was bloody, it was _completely_ _soaked_ in blood – and began cleaning his chest, trying to see what was underneath.

Scott felt as though the air had been punched from his lungs when he saw the clawed gouges torn across Stiles' stomach. His entire chest was black and blue, barely a speck of white skin to be seen. Scott turned away.

He was going to be sick.

Scott took a breath, steeling himself before turning back. He faltered when he saw that the paramedics were no longer moving. Instead, they were looking at him with soft but resigned eyes.

Scott blinked, wondering why they weren't doing anything.

No.

"What are you doing?" he asked, staring at them in disbelief. "What are you doing?! Do something! Help him! He's hurt, he's bleeding, what the hell are you doing?! HELP HIM!"

"Scott," Jason said. "Scott it's over. There's nothing we can do to help him."

Scott could feel heat running through his veins, his entire body feeling as though it were on fire, his heart racing so fast it was almost ready to explode. "What the hell are you talking about?!" he yelled. "You're fucking paramedics, you're supposed to be helping him! Why aren't you helping him?! _Help him!_ "

"Scott it's too late! He's gone, there's nothing we can do!"

Fuck them. _Fuck them_ , fuck all of them they were _lying_. They didn't know what they were talking about. Stiles was a fighter, he was a fighter and he wasn't – he wasn't _gone_ , he was still here they just needed to do their _fucking jobs_ and _save_ him.

"Jason," Scott growled, his voice low. "If you don't help him, I swear you'll be needing someone to save _you_."

Both paramedics suddenly started, their eyes growing wide as they leaned away from Scott. They exchanged glances, hesitating for only a moment before they began working on Stiles once more. Scott felt the fire abate and he could breathe once more.

Okay. Okay, good – they were working on it. There was still time. Stiles would be okay.

Everything was going to be okay.

They arrived the hospital a short while later, pulling up into the bay and throwing the door open just as the ambulance came to a stop. Doctors were already there to meet them, Scott's mom among them.

Scott let the paramedics push past him and out the door. He watched as they took Stiles down and began rolling him into the hospital, quickly disappearing through the doors. Scott wanted to run after them, he didn't want to let Stiles out of his sight, but he knew that he needed to let the doctors do their work.

"Scott."

Scott looked down and met his mother's eyes. She had a look on her face that made Scott's heart skip a beat; her eyes were wide and her face was white, and Scott could hear her heart racing. Weird.

Scott looked back at the hospital as he slowly got out of the ambulance. They were here now, Stiles was here. Everything was going to be okay.

"Scott, honey, let's get you cleaned up."

Scott frowned, staring at his mother briefly before looking down at himself and realising that he was covered in blood.

Stiles' blood.

How many times had he had his friend's blood on him before? How many times had he vowed never to let it happen again? And how many times now had he broken that promise?

"Come on," his mom said, taking his arm and leading him inside.

* * *

Melissa stood outside of the hospital room, holding her phone in front of her, Noah's name staring back at her.

She'd left Scott in the staff room to clean up, but she was certain he hadn't moved an inch from his chair. He'd probably be coming to find her, soon. He never waited long when it came to his friends. He had no patience at all when it came to Stiles.

She hadn't told him yet.

Noah needed to know first. He needed to be here. Stiles was his son, and he needed… he needed to be here.

They both knew their children led dangerous lives, they both knew that this had been a possibility, but neither of them had actually believed –

Chris. Chris had been the only one who knew how dangerous this life had really been. They should have listened to him when he warned them, should've taken control of the situation and kept their children safe, should've packed up and moved away, move to a different town entirely. Everyone needed nurses, everyone needed law enforcement – they would have been fine. They should have done that as soon as all this started. Why on earth hadn't they done that?

Melissa's thumb hovered over the call icon, but she couldn't press it down. She looked up, staring through the window of the door.

Stiles' body lay on the bed, a white sheet laying over it.

Melissa stared for a moment longer, then looked back down at her phone.

Noah needed to know.

She looked back up.

Melissa felt her body begin to shake, and she knew she had to sit down. Her eyes began to sting and she stepped back, turning away from the window. She pressed the phone and brought it to her ear. A few seconds later it connected.

 _"_ _Melissa?"_

"Noah," she said, her voice shaking. "You need to get to the hospital. Now."

She turned the phone off, knowing that Noah had already disconnected the call and was on his way.

Seconds later, she collapsed.

* * *

Scott was getting agitated.

It had been almost twenty minutes now. Where were they? Why hadn't his mom come back yet? She should have been here ten minutes ago, updating him on what was happening, letting him know how badly Stiles had been hurt. He didn't – he didn't even know where they'd put him. It wouldn't be hard to find out though, he just had to track his scent. He was a werewolf, he could do that as easily as breathing.

After waiting three more minutes, Scott finally stood up and went out into the hallway, and began searching for his mom. Hers and Stiles' scents were intermixed, running alongside each other through the corridor and up the elevator. He followed them until he was on the second floor of emergency, weaving his way through the countless people until he finally spotted his mom sitting on a chair along the wall, her head in her hands.

Scott froze.

He could smell the salt wafting off her – she'd been crying. She was still crying. Except she shouldn't be crying. She shouldn't be crying because that – because that would mean –

"Mom?"

Melissa's head snapped up and she looked at her son, her eyes wide. "Scott –."

Scott turned to look at the door where Stiles' scent went into.

Melissa knew exactly what he was thinking. "Scott, honey, _don't_ –."

Ignoring his mother's protests, Scott immediately walked over and slammed the door open, stepping inside.

Scott didn't even realise he'd stopped moving until he suddenly felt his mother's hands on his arm, trying to pull him away. But he wouldn't budge.

No. No it couldn't – it couldn't be. He couldn't actually be seeing this. He wasn't.

 _Dear God please_ , please don't – please don't let this actually – _God, please_ ….

"Did they –." Scott's voice broke, unable to tear his eyes away from the sheet-covered body. "Did they try everything?"

Scott could hear the tears in his mother's voice when she spoke. "They tried to see if they could do anything, but he was… but he was already gone when he got here. They did everything they could, Scott." He felt her hand rubbing across his arm. "They did everything they could."

Scott stared, unblinking. "I was talking to him less than an hour ago," he said. "I was… we were talking, he was talking to me. He was _talking_ _to me_."

Scott heard a sob escape his mother's throat, but he still didn't look away. A moment later he felt his mother's arms wrap around him and pull him into a hug.

An hour later Scott found himself sitting on a chair beside the dead body of his best friend.

Beside the dead body of his brother.

Stiles' dad had shown up shortly after Scott had walked into the hospital room. What happened after… well, Scott didn't want to really think about that. Noah had left about five minutes ago and had yet to return, leaving Scott and his best friend by themselves.

Leaving Scott by himself.

Scott felt drained. He felt tired, he felt weak. He didn't think he could move from this chair even if he tried.

Stiles was gone.

Stiles was dead.

Scott felt his chest tighten at the thought – except it wasn't a thought, it was the truth, it was reality, this was now reality – and a lump began to form in his throat.

No. No, he couldn't cry. Not yet. Crying meant acceptance, it meant he'd stopped fighting, it meant despair. It meant it was over.

Maybe if he'd only gotten there sooner, if he'd somehow managed to get Stiles to tell him where he was sooner, then maybe – maybe he'd have gotten there in time. Maybe he'd still be okay, maybe he'd still be alive.

How could… this couldn't… how could this be happening? How could this have actually happened? Losing Allison had felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest, but this –

They'd known that they led a dangerous life, but they hadn't… they'd never _actually_ believed that one of them would _actually_ die. It just seemed… it just seemed _impossible_. They were two sides of the same coin – they were Stiles and Scott, and they were Scott and Stiles. They were best friends and brothers, they'd been together since they were four, they'd gone through so much together since then and now all of that had come to an end, and for what? Because Stiles had decided to go check the lines? Because he'd gone and done something they'd both done a thousand times, never having any problems, only this time they did because some _fucking werewolf_ decided to attack him and try and eat him and –

Scott shook his head.

He sat in silence a few minutes longer, staring at the sheet that lay over Stiles' body, before he suddenly leaned forward.

He had to see – he had to check. He had to make sure that – that Stiles was – that he was really….

With shaking hands, Scott pulled the sheet back.

Stiles' grey and ashen face met him. His eyes were closed and his mouth was now too. Aside from the cuts and bruises that littered his face, Scott could almost swear he was sleeping.

He had never seen someone so still in his entire life.

Scott's eyes began to sting and grow hot, and he was suddenly feeling unable to breathe. His hands began to shake and he curled his fingers into the sheet. He brought his head down, burying it against Stiles' arm.

He began to cry.


End file.
